


First was the Wolf, and the Wild, and the Will

by Ardatli



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Scott’s not a wolf. As such., br-OTP representing, but not Camelot, medieval!au, mythological rather than historical, pre-everything ship-wise, pseudo-Arthurian, there are things that go bump in the night.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardatli/pseuds/Ardatli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No,” Stiles replied, shaking his head. He might as well not have bothered with the gesture; Scott was looking back once more the way they’d come. Now what was the point of having a blood brother, a shield-brother, a fellow bachelor-knight to take on adventure, if he was going to spend the entire time wishing he were back at home and hearth? It was shameful, that was what it was.</p><p>Stiles said as much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First was the Wolf, and the Wild, and the Will

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eckses](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=eckses).



> Look ma, new fandom! This is my first fic for Teen Wolf, and as you can see, it's an odd duck. 
> 
> It's based on this amazing picture by eckses on tumblr: http://eckses.tumblr.com/post/47124231429/the-red-hoodie-diaries-eckses-finished
> 
> I saw the picture and half of this story flung itself into my head and refused to let go. I have notes and concepts and backstory planned for a much larger work based on this idea, but I have a few other things I need to finish first. This is a ‘test swatch’ of sorts to see if this style works, and it can stand alone for the moment.
> 
> \- Title from Heather Dale, The History of Ealdormere: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VkhC-e10s9w 
> 
> \- This is a muddled mythological mashup, and should not be taken too seriously. For dark/gritty historically-accurate medieval AU, please see my Young Avengers series, “The Dale Cycle.” http://archiveofourown.org/series/38743

There were no clouds that night, the sky above them black and clear. The full and languid moon hung suspended overhead, her silvered light visible in glimpses between the arching boughs of the forest trees. The night had a life all of its own, the distant voices of owls sounding low, whistles of birds not yet abed, and now and again the rustles of small forest creatures escaping the hooves of the two horses which stepped easily along the leaf-scattered trail.

The wind was up and so was Stiles’ blood, the pulse in his ears a steady and rapid one. He peered into the darkness on either side of the trail, drawing back on the leather reins in his hand to slow their pace. Scott did the same next to him, his breastplate a dim gleam in the moonlight and his cloak so dark a green that in the night it might as well have been black. Stiles’ red wool fared only slightly better, pooling over his legs to lend a little extra warmth against the breeze.   

“Did you see something?” Scott’s voice broke the silence, urgency and a little fear making the whisper harsh.

“No,” Stiles replied, shaking his head. He might as well not have bothered with the gesture; Scott was looking back once more the way they’d come. Now what was the point of having a blood brother, a shield-brother, a fellow bachelor-knight to take on adventure, if he was going to spend the entire time wishing he were back at home and hearth? It was shameful, that was what it was.

Stiles said as much.

Scott grumbled under his breath, but kept his horse apace regardless. “Why are we even out here, Stiles?”

That was better. “The full moon is tonight,” Stile pointed at the sky, the weight of his greaves a comforting presence on his arm. Scott had complained about that too, coming out armed and armoured in a time of truce, but if what he suspected were true, Scott would be thanking him for it later. “If we wait, it will be another month before we could try this again! And who knows where we’ll be. Peter could have us all sent south to support the Pendragon by then.”

“You mean Derek will.” Scott’s voice was sour in the darkness, and it was hard to find fault with it. The siege had taken out more than just the Wolf of the North, when the old Lord had burned. Still; fealty was fealty, and once pledged it could not be removed lightly. If at all.

That is not to say that Stiles had not considered it. More than once. Being a knight-errant was not such a bad fate, in times like these, with men from every land riding forth to choose up sides. But Scott was loyal and Scott was sworn, and Stiles would ride with him until one or both met their maker face to face.

 Stiles snorted. “Derek holds the title, but you and I both know how the power lies with that family. If Peter says ‘go,’ he’ll roll over and expose his belly and we’ll be in Londinium before you can blink. Now focus! We have a quest.” The word rolled off his tongue with a hiss and a glorious expectant sibilance, and the smile spread across his face in anticipation.  

The path turned, the forest opened up ahead and there was a clearing barely visible beyond. Stiles urged his mount onward, the war-horse’s thick muscles moving beneath him in a rhythm they had both been born to.  

Scott sounded less than impressed. “Is this because of that grinner that Isaac unearthed?”

“Grimoire,” Stiles corrected, for the fourth time. “And yes, of course. Why else?”

Something was settling over the night as they moved toward the break in the trees, and Stiles found himself dropping his voice in response. He could not name it, could not place it, but the chill that settled over his skin in the summer night was from more than just his thoughts of Peter and his nephew.

“So you _do_ believe in the questing beast,” Scott persisted, and he could focus on that, on Scott’s voice in the darkness that seemed to be growing thicker around them. Scott was a shadow in the blackness as he rode between two enormous trees. The ancient sentinels stood one on either side of the path. Scott tipped up his chin to look at the sky as he passed out of their umbra, his profile lit for a moment by a kiss of moonlight.

“I believe it’s worth having a look,” Stiles replied. He fell in line behind Scott, let him take the lead as they broke through to the clearing. “You lost all sense of adventure after you were knighted, have you noticed? It’s as though the vigil took your entire sense of fun and made it... not-fun.” This was easier, to tease and play pretend like they were small boys again, and not grown men treading where they should not.

And where had that thought come from? This was Hale land and they were Wolf Pack; the blazons on their breastplates and their shields proclaimed that allegiance to all the world. There was no-one who had more rights here than they.

The clearing was a fell and wild one, flowers growing thick amid the grasses that surrounded a crystal pond. The moonlight shone full-strong here, not as bright as the sun but close enough to make movement easier than it had been, picking their way through the thick-boughed trees. Stiles dismounted with practiced grace, fumbled at his belt for his water-skin. The clink and rattle of bridle and tack behind him suggested that Scott was doing the same, and Stiles stepped down to the waterside without looking back.

Reeds grew in stands around the rim of the pond, standing tall and straight and untouched by wind. The water lay clear and still, reflecting the pinpoint stars and the pregnant roundess of the moon. The white light glimmered across the water, only to shatter into a thousand shards when Stiles dipped his hands into it.

The water was cold, colder by far than any shallow pool had the right to be at this time of year. There had to be an underground spring, feeding ice from the distant mountain peaks. It sank into his bones and chilled him, the concentric circles of the waves lapping in at his fingers and then out again, spreading and reforming and fading into stillness once more.  

The white-bright glow of the moon reformed itself in the mirror-mere into a shape altogether different. A majestic creature, antlers the span of a man’s arms, regarded Stiles with solemnity from the surface.

Stiles raised his head, stared into eyes that were black as night and spotted with a hundred thousand stars. This could not be. He closed his eyes and opened them again, and still there stood the stag, white and glorious in his majesty. He was still as stone but for the rise and fall of his flanks with every easy breath.

There was no wind. There were no birds.

There was no moon.

The great stag dipped his head – not to Stiles, but to something or someone behind him.

Stiles should be afraid. He should be panicked. He should look to Scott and draw his sword and stand back to back, for this creature was nothing out of nature. Elation filled him instead, soared up and suffused every pore; it was beautiful and entirely, utterly unlike any thing or beast he had seen before.

He wanted to move closer, but he could not. His arms and legs felt heavy, thick with lethargy and exhaustion. He could stay right here, then, just look at it and be happy. This was a magic night, after all, and magic things were happening.

The air parted between them and a red rose blossomed on the stag’s breast. The blood that flowed from the chest was red even in the darkness. The arrow shaft was black, traced with silver stars, and red spattered over the white feathers of the fletching.

The stag fell, first to its knees and then to the ground, the light fading with every drop of life’s last blood. The forest dimmed, the light gone, and there was nothing in the world but grief.

Stiles spun, the heavy paralysis that had overtaken his limbs now gone. There had been no cry of warning, no hunter’s horn, nothing but the wind of the arrow’s silent flight-

_Scott?_

He saw _her_ first before he saw Scott. She waited on the ridge at the far end of the clearing, mounted on a blood-bay horse, her bow lowered and no arrow at the nock. Her dark hair fell freely around her shoulders and tumbled down her back, a clinging robe of silks in every shade of green cut short above her knees. She wore riding boots and hose and sat the horse with ease though there was no saddle between them.

Her eyes were black and held the stars.

Scott stood below, transfixed, his hand stilled halfway toward his sword. He stared up at her and she stared down at him and a power thrummed between them that raised the hair on Stiles’ arms and the back of his neck.

She had killed it; the archer. She had killed the stag, and now she blocked their best and only exit. He and Scott would die this night. And it would be his fault.

The stag moved. It rose to its feet, staggered once, then bowed. It had no wounds, no arrow jutted from its breast to seal its doom.

The archer bowed in return.

Stiles whipped around again, not sure where to look, what to keep in his line of sight. His hand reached for his sword, the metal hilt a comfort and a weight that he could reach and ground himself upon.

The stag’s great muscles bunched and it leapt and sailed between the trees. The forest parted to allow its passage and Stiles’ heart ached for the wings and freedom that carried it away.

It took the light with it and the sense of peace and awe that had filled Stiles vanished all as one. The night was treacherous and the forest whispered darkling dreams, and still there was no moon in the sky.

The archer moved again. She reached out a hand and Scott reached up to meet it, his expression dreamy, half-frozen and be-spelled.

“ _Scott! **NO!**_ ”

Stiles shouted and he drew his sword, but his feet were stuck to the ground as though the mud itself acted according to _her_ will. Scott half-turned, his mouth moved but no sound came out. She seized his hand in one swift move and pulled him up behind her on her mount.

A thousand-thousand hunting horns cut through the air, their shrill and mournful blasts so loud that the dead themselves should sit up and take notice. The horns blew and there was a thundering of hooves, and mist whirled and spun around Stiles until he could no longer see clearly.

There were shapes within the mist, forms and faces indistinct; he saw antlers and robes and golden crowns, features both human and wholly not-human combined. The hoofbeats drummed the ground until it vibrated in his bones, the horns sounded again and again, and laced between them was the baying of hounds.

The wind scoured him, the mist-forms thundered by, the horns blared one final time –

And then it was done. The forest stilled.

There was no mist.

There was no stag, nor hounds, nor army.

The pool was crystal-clear and calm, the reeds gently swaying in the breeze. An owl called somewhere in the woods and another answered. A rabbit darted across the grass, bold in the darkness.

The moon shone overhead, full, remote and cold.

The clearing was empty, save for Stiles and two horses.

Scott was gone. 

 

* * *

Preview:

 

"The Wild Hunt rides on full-moon nights." Isaac's fingers curled around the edge of the vellum pages, his hand and wrist a pale and bony thing beneath the rough brown wool of his robe. 

"So that's it?" Danny asked, his face a grimace of disgust. "All we do is  _wait?_ "

"No." The three turned together. Isaac stepped back from the table in a gesture so automatic that Stiles could not be sure that he even recognized that he was doing it. Derek's dark silhouette filled the doorway to the cellar room, the torches on the stairs behind him casting long shadows across the hard-packed dirt floor. Stiles swallowed against the sudden strike of fear. This was  _Derek_ , and they were doing nothing wrong. 

Derek continued speaking into the silence. "That's not all we do. Come on. The Pack is waiting." 

**Author's Note:**

> \- The questing beast: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Questing_Beast 
> 
> \- Other things that are or will be relevant:
> 
> The Wild Hunt: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wild_Hunt
> 
> Tam Lin: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tam_Lin
> 
> Artemis and the Ceryneian Hind: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ceryneian_Hind
> 
> Stags and deer in mythology: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deer_in_mythology
> 
> \- A ‘Bachelor Knight’ or knight-bachelor was a knight in sworn service to a feudal lord. A ‘Knight errant’ was a masterless or ‘wandering’ knight. They get all the good quests.
> 
> \- Apologies for the modern names – I find them a bit distracting, but changing them was worse. Hopefully they don’t mood-kill too badly


End file.
